Bennett bowed. “Lady Chloe.”
As she scampered away, his spirits improved. There was a great deal of satisfaction to be gained in assisting others. Perhaps he should begin a service; it was certainly a welcome distraction from his own personal upheavals.
Without warning, a hand clamped on his shoulder. “Tunbury. Do you have a moment?”
He turned in surprise at Lord Hurst’s oddly strained voice. “Of course, my lord.”
“I need a favor, undertaken with the utmost discretion,” whispered his former trustee as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“You’re in luck—‘tis my night for granting favors.”
Lord Hurst didn’t smile. “It’s Fletcher.”
Somehow Bennett refrained from snorting. Although how curious that the earl hadn’t swept up the matter personally as he usually did for his obnoxious heir. “Yes?”
“My son was tricked into submitting a membership application to that sinner’s club, Deborah’s Temple or whatever it is. Fortunately the lowborn owner declined! But now Fletcher is on his way there to protest the decision, and…ah…he’s had a little too much to drink. Of course I cannot be seen at such a notorious location…”
Hell and damnation.
“Sir Giles as well?” he asked curtly.
“No, he wanted to stay and dance. Say you’ll assist. You do owe me so much after all.”
Bennett’s fists clenched. But there wasn’t time for a verbal duel, he needed to warn Delilah. If he could just get to Golden Square before that cretin created a scene, perhaps her business could be spared a visit from a constable, or worse, being closed by order of a magistrate. Under no circumstances could he let her pride and joy be ruined by bloody Fletcher.
“I’m on my way,” he growled.
Hopefully he would get there in time.
“Never mind, ma’am. I’ll clean it up.”
Delilah smiled apologetically at the maid, all while muttering darkly at the small mound of clotted cream and berry tart now decorating the gaming hell floor. Since the moment she’d come to the startling realization that she had feelings for Ben, all skill and common sense had flown out the window and absolutely nothing had gone right.
This evening alone she’d broken a shoe heel, failed to order sufficient salmon from the fishmonger, singed a gown hem with a too-enthusiastic stoking of the fire in her bedchamber, and now she’d managed to drop her bowl of dessert. The only small mercy had been the bowl remaining intact and not smashing into a thousand pieces; if she’d interrupted the card playing going on around her there would have been near-riots. Aristocrats took their whist and vingt-un extremely seriously.
“I am very clumsy this evening,” she said ruefully. “On my honor I swear not to touch another dish.”
The maid grinned as she scooped up the mess and mopped the floor. “Why don’t you go and listen to the lecture on Florentine leather dildos? Or watch the exhibitionists? Trios are always more fun than couples.”
“I might just do that,” Delilah replied, glancing at the floor again and sighing in disappointment at the wasted dessert. With a distinct lack of orgasms in her life since she’d sent Ben home, sweets were the next best thing and she loved berry tarts.
Really, she needed to stay away from Temple patrons until her head cleared and she returned to being her usual calm, cool-headed self. It had taken quite literally years to build the club reputation as a place of discretion, luxury, and impeccable service, but as any business owner knew, reputation could be destroyed at any moment with a misstep. Especially when it was scientific fact that scandal crossed London at twice the speed of praise.
Smoothing her skirts, Delilah retreated from the gaming hell and made her way to the theater. The lecture had commenced about ten minutes prior, so she wouldn’t have missed very much. After nodding to the footmen on the door, she stepped carefully on tiptoes so her heels didn’t make a noise, and entered the darkened space. Fortunately there was an available seat close to the wall so she could leave again if need be, and Delilah slid into it with a small sigh of relief that she had avoided any more mishaps.
The speakers were actually a husband and wife who had previously run a lackluster shoe cobbling business until deciding to change course and craft sexual accessories. A rather inspired choice; they now sold across the continent and had admirers in many of the royal courts due to the quality and durability of their items. Of course it helped that they were both charming, and as the lecture continued, the two had the audience roaring with laughter as they recounted in great detail all the times things had gone awry when they tested their accessories on each other.
Delilah relaxed in her chair. Exactly the remedy required for her woes, some good healthy laughter.
A woman leaned over. “Good evening, Mrs. Forbes. Aren’t Mr. and Mrs. Pucci wonderful? I may have to add to my toy collection.”
Good grief. Of all people.
“They are indeed, Lady Judith” she whispered. “I didn’t realize you and his lordship were attending tonight.”
“A last minute decision. We were going to attend the Nawton ball, but I persuaded Preston to change his mind. The old fashioned way.”
Delilah coughed to disguise a giggle in the temporary quiet of the theater, as the other patrons listened intently to the couple speak on the tools used to make sexual accessories. She’d always wondered in the past how Lady Judith and Tunbury could be such opposites. Now she knew the truth, that both siblings were delightfully wicked. “Well done.”
“I thought so.”
A quarter hour later, just as Mr. Pucci began explaining how best to clean and care for leather accessories while Mrs. Pucci demonstrated, a flurry of movement next to the wall caught her eye, and she turned her head to see a footman hurrying toward her.
The young man leaned down so he might whisper in her ear. “Tunbury is here, ma’am. Says he needs to speak to you.”
“Tell him I’ll be there presently,” she murmured, glad only the stage was brightly lit in the theater, for her cheeks were flushing with excited anticipation. Ben had returned!
“Beg pardon, but he says it is most urgent.”
Delilah frowned as her stomach began to churn. That didn’t sound like a lover come to claim what was his, it sounded downright bloody ominous. “Very well,” she replied quickly, bracing her hands on the padded seat in front of her to rise.
“Mrs. Forbes?” said Lady Judith, placing her gloved hand on Delilah’s sleeve. “Is something amiss?”
“No, no. Just an unexpected visitor. I hope you and his lordship enjoy the rest of the lecture.”
But with each reassuring word to her patron, Delilah’s anxiety grew. Why did Ben need to see her so urgently? He knew that at this time of night the club was at its busiest, so surely wouldn’t be here to discuss personal matters. If he had forgotten and come for that purpose, she would grumble at having insufficient time for simple vanities like freshening her chignon or applying a little rouge to her cheeks. Delilah Forbes might be the most contrite woman in England after tossing Ben out of bed, but she certainly didn’t need to look like she’d been pining for him.
Shaking her head, Delilah followed the footman out of the theater and into the entrance hall to see Ben pacing in front of the fireplace. He looked so very ducal and even more handsome than she remembered in his formal evening clothing; black jacket, white silk knee breeches, silver waistcoat, and an intricately arranged cravat had never looked so delicious.
“Your Grace,” she said a trifle breathlessly, dipping into a curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Ben stared at her, and for a moment his eyes glowed with pure hunger. Just as quickly the lust vanished, and once again she mourned the loss of her wicked lover.
He bowed. “Mrs. Forbes. I am pleased to see all is well here.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she asked, frowning.
“Lord Fletcher is on his way. We were both at the Nawton ball, I went to dance
, then his father Lord Hurst informed me that his son intended to protest the membership decision. He’s well in his cups, so stopped on the journey to…well, I’m sure you can guess. That is the only reason I managed to arrive before him.”
Furious dismay coiled so tightly in Delilah’s stomach she felt ill.
The scandal of a drunk, well-connected lord making a scene in the Temple was the very last thing she needed. The reason wealthy patrons came here was because of the exclusivity and strict rules to ensure their comfort and privacy. If they decided this wasn’t a sanctuary from everyday life, that non-members could arrive and make trouble or even force the Watch here to raid the premises, they would leave in droves. The Temple’s reputation would be mud, subscriptions would be cancelled, and the new owner might well decide that legal proceedings were in order.
Such a disaster could not be permitted.
“What is his lordship wearing?” she asked swiftly. “I will call for extra footmen. He cannot be allowed in here, Ben. It will ruin everything—”
“Delilah Forbes! Where is that bloody woman? Take your hands off me, you lowborn sewer rat.”
Her heart plummeted to the tips of her toes as the loud, slurred voice echoed across the entrance hall. Footmen were attempting to escort Lord Fletcher back out the door, but the viscount was resisting, and if anyone left the theater or gaming hell they would witness the fracas.
Oh God. Years of hard work and sacrifice could be destroyed in an instant because of a selfish, petulant fool.
What on earth was she supposed to do now?
Chapter 7
He could practically feel Delilah’s fury at Fletcher and fear of a business-collapsing scandal.
Bennett stood motionless beside her, his palms positively itching to leap in and beat the cretin to a pulp. But this was Delilah’s Temple. Her decisions, her rules, and he would respect whichever way she wished to resolve the matter. It needed to happen quickly however; at any moment patrons could leave the theater, gaming hell, or one of the pleasure rooms, and see this nonsense. And shoving Fletcher outside wouldn’t necessarily be better, as the other residents of Golden Square or even newly arriving patrons would have a prime view of the altercation.
“Escort Lord Fletcher to the coat room,” called Delilah sharply to her staff. “At once.”
“Do you wish me to accompany you?” he asked, keeping his tone even so he did not influence her decision, as two large men removed the viscount from the entrance hall.
“I…” she hesitated, her fingers tangling together.
“It is no trouble. I can be whatever you need—witness, accomplice, or alibi.”
Delilah stared at him for a long moment. Then she went up on tiptoes and brushed his lips with hers. Not a kiss to arouse or farewell, but something deep and tender that warmed him to the core.
“I didn’t know that was exactly what I wished to hear until you said it,” she said softly. “Who can guess how this situation will end? Lord Fletcher is indeed sotted, and sotted people are wildly unpredictable.”
“I think it wise you chose the coat room rather than outside,” he replied, offering his arm as they walked. “A neighbor could send for a constable or report straight to Fleet Street. As could a patron or passerby.”
Her fingers curled tight around his arm. “I chose the coat room because it lacks potential weapons, although my fists, knees, and elbows remain in play.”
“As I said, madam, I offer my services as a witness, accomplice, or alibi.”
The coat room was about ten feet long and equally as wide, filled with rows of numbered shelves and hooks holding hats, greatcoats, cloaks, bonnets, and pelisses for patrons while they enjoyed the Temple’s facilities. But it also had a small wooden table and several chairs, and when they entered the room Fletcher sat slumped on a chair, a brawny and deliberately expressionless footman either side of him. These men probably knew how to maim without raising so much as a drop of sweat.
“This is reduck…redick…utter nonsense, Delilah,” said Fletcher, scowling at her.
“You may call me Mrs. Forbes,” she replied crisply. “And it is your own fault, arriving at a private club drunk and shouting.”
“What the hell is Humdrum Tun doing here?”
Bennett flexed his fist, the urge to plant a facer on the other man almost overwhelming. “You can direct all appreciation toward your father. He told me your destination at the ball, and asked for my assistance.”
Fletcher frowned and then hiccupped. “Someone fetch me a brandy. Least you can do after manhandling me into a demmed coat room.”
“You’ve had more than enough already, my lord,” said Delilah. “I am happy to order tea, however.”
“Tea is for old men and mewling infants. Very well, if you’re going to be all crass and rude to your better, then explain why my ass…application was rejected. Don’t think you quite understand who I am. A close chum of the Prince Regent!”
Delilah’s lip curled, and she sank gracefully into one of the other chairs. Somehow this made her look more intimidating, and Bennett wanted to cheer. The only lack of understanding here was the viscount’s: what a woman born and bred in Cheapside, who had overcome grief and hardship to build an extremely successful business, might do to protect what was hers.
“I know exactly who you are,” said Delilah coldly. “A peer who doesn’t follow rules, and is therefore unsuitable for membership. I do not permit drunkenness in the Temple, you are well in your cups. Your application required two character references, you provided none—”
“Oh, that is easy,” said Fletcher, brightening. “Tunny will vouch for me, won’t you old boy? Known each other for years and years. M’father was one of his trustees after the old duke cocked up his toes.”
Bennett said nothing. He would vouch for Fletcher when badgers in bonnets ice skated through purgatory.
Delilah cleared her throat. “Alas, my lord, the character references must come from people who are already Temple members, and have been so for at least six months. The rules apply to everyone, even, er close chums of the Prince Regent.”
“If I didn’t know better, Mrs. Forbes,” said the viscount slowly, sending her a dark frown, “I might think you were mocking me. That you did not want me here. And that would be a very bad bush…business decision.”
“We shall see. I don’t believe there is anything further to discuss, so I’ll wish you a good evening. You are free to leave alone, or if you require assistance to your carriage, my bodyguard will escort you. He’s recently retired from the British army, resembles a tree trunk with fists the size of ham hocks, and possesses a short temper thanks to years of salted beef rations.”
Fletcher leaned forward on his chair, swayed a little, and then righted himself. But his gaze shot arrows of pure hatred at Delilah. “There will be conshe…consequences for this.”
Bennett’s temper boiled over, and he confronted the other man, hooked a hand under his arm, and yanked the blond lord to his feet. “You’ve said quite enough. If you aren’t gone from these premises immediately, Mrs. Forbes’ bodyguard will have to stand in line for his turn to rearrange your nose. I’m positively itching to do so, and Gentleman Jackson believes I have a rather adequate right hook.”
“Ah, I see how it is. Humdrum Tun so desperate for a woman he defends a whore. Scraping the barrel, dear boy…ooof…”
Blinking in surprise, Bennett stared down at Fletcher, now on his knees, wheezing and coughing like a shipwreck survivor scooped out of a stormy sea. Good God. It had finally happened. He’d chosen angry street brawler over duke and punched the man square in the stomach with the full force of ten years’ worth of pent up anger and frustration. Twice.
And he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Glancing up at Delilah, he opened his mouth, ready to apologize for the fisticuffs in her presence. But she shook her head, so instead Bennett hauled the viscount to his feet for a second time, before grabbing Fletcher’s right arm and dra
ping it around his shoulder. One of Delilah’s footmen darted forward to do the same to Fletcher’s left arm, and together they half-walked, half-dragged him back to the entrance hall, which, saints be praised, was temporarily empty.
Fletcher continued to wheeze, and his shoe heels tap danced on the marble floor as he attempted to free himself, but Bennett and the footman were unwavering in their determination to remove the interloper from the Temple.
“Tun,” the viscount croaked. “How could you? For her?”
“Delilah Forbes is worth a thousand of you. Ten thousand. You are unworthy to be in the presence of such a wonderful woman,” snarled Bennett when they reached Fletcher’s carriage. “So do not return here, or to Grosvenor Square, because I swear not even your father will recognize you when I’m done.”
Without waiting for a response he turned and stormed away, needing to get back to Delilah. Although he had no right to be in the Temple—he wasn’t a member and hadn’t been invited—she had kissed him and that might mean something. Did he dare hope for more, despite just punching a lord in a coat room?
Delilah waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, her smile cool under the bright light of the candle-heavy chandelier. “Your Grace. I wondered if you might accompany me upstairs to my parlor for a discussion?”
His heart sank, even as he nodded. “Of course.”
After an entire day of grappling with thoughts so tumultuous she’d quite feared losing her usual calm demeanor forever, Delilah needed quiet and privacy.
But mainly, she needed Ben.
Tender feelings did not at all encompass her current swirling emotions. She had fallen in love with him, plain and simple. What else could she feel for someone who had rushed from a ball to warn her of trouble, offered his unconditional support, but also refrained from interfering in a business matter? Who had not only defended her, but punched the wretched Lord Fletcher twice in the stomach and escorted him from the building? Not since Archie had a man both respected and taken care of her like that. Yet Ben seemed to understand her even better than her late husband, for while marital relations with him had been satisfactory, being bedded and forced to orgasm repeatedly by Ben was truly sublime.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 126